


The Rite of Patroklos

by biichan



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: First Time, Jossed, M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-25
Updated: 2005-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biichan/pseuds/biichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore sends Harry a letter from beyond the grave requesting he completes the mysterious Rite of Patroklos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rite of Patroklos

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harry's Birthday challenge at Pornish Pixies

It began, as always, with a letter.

Harry had been enjoying the impromptu birthday tea that the rest of the Order had thrown him when the fine parchment envelope appeared in the centre of his plate. Luckily, he'd already finished with his cake. Blinking with surprise, Harry quickly wiped his fingers on the edge of the tablecloth and pried open the envelope.

> _My dearest Harry_, (the letter read, in a spidery hand that was heartbreakingly familiar.) _If you are reading this, then what I have feared has come to pass and I am no longer with you. It is now the seventeenth anniversary of your natal day; you are an adult in our society and you are old enough to do what needs to be done before you face our enemy. The Rite of Patroklos may be your salvation._
> 
> I wish you all the luck in the world. Godspeed, my son.
> 
> I remain,
> 
> your headmaster, Albus Dumbledore

  
Harry swallowed the lump that was threatening to develop in his throat. "The Rite of Patroklos," he murmured, quickly stuffing Dumbledore's letter in his pocket, before looking up at the rest of the Order. To his surprise, they were staring at him.

"What is it, Harry?" Ron asked, concern showing on his freckled face.

"Yes, Harry," Hermione echoed. "What is it?"

Harry took a deep breath. "It's a letter. From Dumbledore. He wants me to do… something. Have either of you heard of the Rite of Patroklos?"

Ron shook his head. "Sorry Harry," he said apologetically. Hermione frowned.

"I think I may have heard it somewhere," she started to say reluctantly. "Possibly in Hogwarts, A History…"

Ron groaned out loud. Fred, the closer of the Weasley twins, snickered. "Sounds Greek to me," he declared, stabbing his own piece of cake in a particularly bloodthirsty fashion.

Hermione scowled. "That's because it is. Patroklos was the cousin of Achilles; they were both in the Iliad. Honestly, you two are worse than Ron!"

Ron went beet red at that. George snorted. "Right. So tell us what the bloody thing is, then."

"It's… it's—"

"It's an old ritual," a gruff voice at the end of the table finished for her. The rest of them turned to stare at Mad-Eye Moody, who calmly unscrewed the lid of his new flask and took a drink from it. "Protective sort, but it also gives a nice little power boost as well. I've used it myself for decades. You can come and stay in my cottage this week upcoming and I'll walk you through it. Mind you," he added, slipping the flask back into his pocket, "it's an eleventh degree ritual, so if you've any problem with that we oughtn't to even try."

_Eleventh_ degree? Just what were the rest of the degrees for, Harry wondered. He shook his head. It didn't matter. Dumbledore wanted him to do this. Had told him so from _beyond the grave_. There was no way Harry could not go through with this.

"No," he said, raising his head high. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do."

The old man's scarred face twisted into a crooked smile. "Well, good then. Get your things packed up and we'll leave tonight."

Hermione shot him a quizzical look. Harry only hoped that he hadn't made the wrong decision.

~*~*~

Harry spent the next day bent over a pair of cauldrons Moody had rigged up in his garden shed, while the old man bellowed out instructions from the doorway. The pair of salves needed for the rite normally took a fortnight to brew, Moody had explained the night before; Harry was lucky that Moody had already started preparations for his own rite and luckier still that Moody hadn't reached the point of adding his own personal contributions to the salves. Or at least, Moody had _said_ that Harry was lucky.

Harry wasn't quite sure anymore himself.

"What are you waiting for, lad?" the old man hissed. "You've got the knife, so slash your palm. You can't delay things like this if you don't want to start again from the beginning."

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying," Harry grumbled, as he fumbled with the silver knife Moody had given him. The hilt was engraved with an odd sort of picture language that Harry couldn't read and he'd stopped looking too closely at. Even incomprehensible, the inscription gave him the chills.

"Hurry faster." Moody snapped. "Don't forget, you're setting up preparations for _my_ rite before you leave here and I don't fancy being kept waiting yet another fortnight."

"I don't think you'd _let_ me forget," Harry muttered under his breath, as he squeezed the blood from his hand: three drops into the first cauldron, seven drops into the second. He was starting to think he'd liked the fake Moody better.

"Damn straight I won't," Moody said with a snort. "All right, you're nearly done. All's you need to do is wank."

Harry spun around on his heels. "_Wank_?!?" He had _not_ heard Moody say that. It had to be a hallucination.

"Yeah, wank," the old man said, leaning a little on his staff. "Just into the second cauldron, mind—at least until the rites themselves. Once you finish here I'll get the scroll out, so you can take a look at what we'll be doing in a few days."

"I can't do that with you around!" Harry sputtered. He was _insane_, the old man was bloody _insane_.

Moody looked like he was considering this. "Suppose you're right," he admitted grudgingly and he turned himself around, so he was facing the garden. "All right, Harry. I'm not looking."

Harry snorted softly. _Sure_, he wasn't. Not with all the bragging Moody had done about having eyes in the back of his head—or rather the bloody _Eye_. Harry was starting to wonder what the old man _did_ with the damn thing—it seemed like it would be all too easy to look through people's robes with it.

He closed his eyes as he unzipped his fly and tried to centre himself. _Think of Ginny_, he told himself, _or the Prince._ He winced, then, for after all the Half-Blood Prince had turned out to be Snape, the bastard. It shouldn't have felt like a personal betrayal, but it did.

He tried to think of Ginny, but it wasn't her face that hovered behind his eyelids as he began to stroke himself—it was Malfoy's. Malfoy's face, flushed red with a cock in his mouth—Harry's cock in his mouth. Malfoy licking and sucking on Harry's cock like a bloody _pro_, like some sort of glorified _whore_ and he was, wasn't he? Harry's whore, Harry's own personal whore, he'd do anything for Harry after Harry saved him from Lord Voldemort, from Snape, neither of whom had properly appreciated the mouth on him and had _deserved_ their deaths for daring to touch—

There was a sizzling sound as Harry's cock went soft in his hand and he could hear Moody bellowing at him: "Stir! Mix it in, you fool, and then when you've got it good and dissolved, you can come on in for supper. I don't want to ruin this batch just because it's your first time."

~*~*~

Moody claimed supper was curry but Harry had his doubts about that. For one thing, it was too damn hot. For another thing, there were no mushy peas or unexpected lumps of swede and the runny yellow sauce was neither runny nor really yellow. Harry was quite familiar with curry, it being a favourite supper of Aunt Petunia's and Dudley's on nights when Vernon was away on business, and he supposed he should of expected no better from a man who made cocoa by way of melting chocolate frogs.

(It did taste better than Aunt Petunia's curry once you got used to having to drink a glass of water with every bite. But Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to admit that.)

After supper was over, Harry followed Moody into the sitting room where the old man took a battered old scroll that was wedged in a bookshelf and handed it over to Harry. "Here," Moody said gruffly. "Take a look at it. You'll be wanting to make yourself familiar by tomorrow night."

Harry unrolled the scroll. And stared.

"Moody," he asked, very slowly, "why are there pictures of men fucking all over this?"

"Diagrams," Moody corrected. "To show each step of the spell."

"Diagrams," Harry echoed. "Right. And you could have told me about this _when_?"

Moody snorted. "I did. I bloody well told you it was an eleventh degree ritual from the start." The old man rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of Crowley's classifications of sex magic? Bloody hell, what do they _teach_ you in these schools?"

"They don't teach us about being buggered," Harry snapped. "I can't believe this! You expect me to summon some person out of nowhere to fuck me up the arse?"

"Yes," Moody growled. "You damn well better, considering what I sacrificed for you. Dragon's blood doesn't come cheap, even powdered."

Harry stared at him, mouth agape. Moody couldn't really… could he? He was insane, he was bloody insane… and Hermione had known what the old man had meant, hadn't she, that was why she'd given him such odd looks at his birthday tea, wasn't it?

And now he was going to have dragon's blood up his arse. Among other things. Bloody hell.

After a long moment, Moody sighed. "You're a bloody heterosexual, aren't you?"

Harry swallowed and tried not to think of Malfoy. "Er…"

"Not sure, then," Moody concluded, meeting Harry's eyes with his own. "Well," he said. "I don't know what to say. I suppose this will help you figure it out, if anything."

"I guess," Harry said, looking away from Moody. "I. Um. Oh fuck."

Moody leaned over and patted Harry's knee. "Cheer up," he said. "You can't have a more awkward first time with the rite than I had."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Do I _want_ to know?"

Moody laughed. "Might as well tell you anyhow. I was your age, actually. I found the scroll in a Knockturn Alley junkshop. Ended up conjuring the little third year that was always staring at me into my bed."

Harry tried to picture a seventeen year old Moody and failed utterly. Moody looked like he had been _born_ old. "You're kidding."

"I don't kid," said Moody. "We ended up walking out together, so to say. Even took him home to my flat after he got his OWLs." He reached under the lamp stand. "Here," he said. "He made this hat for me twenty years back. Sent me over the biscuits from tea too."

Harry turned the pointy hat 'round in his hands. "It's wrapped in tinfoil."

Moody grinned. "Keeps the legilimentes out. Best hat I ever got."

Moody, Harry thought, wasn't the only one who was bloody insane.

~*~*~

The scroll had said to keep his mind perfectly cleared when he wanked. Harry wondered what sort of bloody superman had _devised_ the damn rite. Whoever it was certainly hadn't been human.

A quick rub of the balls, thumb and forefinger squeezing the head before wrapping his hand around the whole of the cock—he shuddered as it brushed against the sensitive flesh of his drawn-back foreskin. He closed his eyes and then opened them right away—Malfoy's face still swam behind his eyelids. Malfoy.

He wasn't at all shocked when his climax hit him and Malfoy appeared in front of him, blooming from the seed spilled onto his bed sheets.

Malfoy didn't look very shocked either and that, that was a surprise. He reached over, touched Harry's cheek, and pulled his hand back as if he'd been bitten. "Potter?"

Harry nodded. "Sorry about this," he managed to whisper back, though he wasn't truly sure how sorry he was. Malfoy looked just as he'd imagined him, even down to the cut head of his prick. It made him look vulnerable. Harry liked that.

Malfoy snorted. "Sure," he said, pushing white-blond hair back from his face. "Wait. Don't tell me. It's the Rite of Patroklos, isn't it?"

Harry's throat was raw. He wondered if he was dreaming all of this. "You—you _know_?"

Malfoy gave him an insolent little shrug. "My great-uncle's been teaching it to me," he said diffidently. "It's not _that_ uncommon."

"Right," said Harry uncomfortably, squashing the urge to ask if Malfoy's uncle had a thing for wearing tinfoil. "So. Um. You know what you've got to do to me then."

"I might," said Malfoy, examining his nails. "The question is, do I have a reason to." Creamy white skin, pale pink nipples and soft grey eyes—the angry black Mark on his wrist seemed like a travesty.

"You get to _fuck_ me, Malfoy," Harry replied with a soft snort. Something tightened in his stomach. "I'd think you'd like that."

"Maybe the question is whether or not _you'd_ like it," Malfoy shot back. "I'm not a rapist, Potter. I won't make love to anyone who doesn't want me."

It was enough to make Harry laugh, to hear Malfoy use such a girlish term for it all, but he didn't laugh—instead, he grabbed Malfoy's wrist. "Who says I _don't_?"

Malfoy breathed in sharply. "Don't touch that," he hissed. "Just… don't."

"Why not?" Harry took hold of Malfoy's other wrist. "Does it hurt? Maybe you should have thought of that before you let Voldemort put it on you."

Malfoy wrenched himself out of Harry's grasp. "Go to Hell, Potter. Oh wait, you'll be going there soon enough. Give my regards to Cousin Sirius and Professor Dumbledore."

"You— you—" Harry reached to grab Malfoy again, but Malfoy had already began to scramble to the other end of the bed. "I can't believe I ever felt _sorry_ for you."

"I can't believe it either," Malfoy snapped. "It would take a miracle for the famous Harry Potter to feel anything at all!" His pale face was flushed—he was so near the edge of the bed that it was a wonder that he didn't fall to the floor. "How would you like having your dad in gaol?"

"At least I'd bloody well _have_ one!"

Malfoy stared at him a moment and then he sniffed. "Not my fault," he said. "You'll have to bring that up with the Dark Lord."

Harry grit his teeth. "I will be," he said tightly. "But I need your help first."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he did move away from the edge of the bed. "Again, I ask: why should I?"

Harry sighed. "Because… I want you to."

"You want me to," Malfoy repeated. He snorted delicately. "And here I thought you were only stalking me in order to save the world."

Harry stared at him. "Listen," he said. "I'm not the one who had my minions cross-dressing."

"What minions?" Malfoy shot back. "Vince and Greg happen to be friends. Speaking of minions, I'm surprised you didn't call up the Weasel to help you with this, except then he'd have to learn how to put something besides his tongue up your arse."

Harry shuddered. Ron might have been his best friend but there were things friends just shouldn't _do_ to each other. "Ew."

"Yes, well, it isn't something I particularly enjoy imagining either," Malfoy said prissily. He sat back on his heels. "You want me. Forgive me, Potter, if I find that too good to be true."

"It's not exactly something I'm proud of," Harry snapped.

"Of course not," said Malfoy. He sighed. "If I do this for you, you're going to owe me."

Harry nodded slowly. "I know." If he didn't end up owing Malfoy, then Malfoy wasn't really Malfoy. He wasn't sure if that would be better or worse than Malfoy being Malfoy. If Malfoy was Malfoy. Um.

Harry decided not to think about that anymore.

Malfoy was looking at him as if he were some sort of interesting bug. Harry shivered. "So, um, can we get it over with?"

"You could ask a bit more nicely," Malfoy said. "I'm doing this as a favour to you."

Harry swallowed, hard. "Will you please fuck me, Malfoy?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Yes, Potter, I will make love to you. Because no matter what you think, I'm _not_ a bad person. Now could you hand me the salve for the second half of the rite?"

Harry tossed the bottle into Malfoy's hands. "I didn't say that," he protested.

"No," Malfoy replied, spilling the salve out onto his hand. "But you were thinking it."

"Was n—" And Malfoy leaned forward and stopped Harry's mouth with his own.

He tasted of cinnamon, of cinnamon and honey and after a while it was hard to tell where Malfoy ended and Harry started. Malfoy broke the kiss a lifetime too soon and Harry was left blinking at him, dazed. "You kissed me," he whispered, half to himself.

"You liked it," Malfoy observed, smirking slightly. Harry flushed.

Malfoy leaned over and brushed his lips against Harry's. "Lie down on your side," he breathed. "I know how this ought to go—I've seen pictures."

Harry found himself nodding dumbly as he did as Malfoy had requested. He wondered what had changed, that he was obeying the other boy so docilely. One kiss couldn't possibly change that much, could it?

Could it?

Harry felt a pair of fingers poking at the opening of his arse and he stiffened suddenly at the invasion. "Relax," Malfoy murmured and Harry found himself breathing deep as Malfoy slid those fingers inside him, coating him with the salve he'd made for himself, days ago in Moody's garden shed.

He turned his head so he could watch Malfoy. There was a serious, thoughtful expression in those grey eyes and that startled him, to see Malfoy in such concentration. He'd never seen Malfoy look so serious, nor so earnest, and he wondered, wildly, if this was the Malfoy that Myrtle knew. Perhaps this Malfoy had never existed before or perhaps he'd been there all along and just had never shown himself to Harry.

"Malfoy—" Harry started to whisper and then the fingers were gone and he winced, because he had been starting to _like_ them there.

"Ssshh," the other boy whispered back, sliding down behind him. "It's all right, Potter. I'm here."

Harry wondered why that ought to reassure him and then he wondered why it _did_ and then it didn't matter because Malfoy was inside him and if the fingers had been one thing this was something entirely different and he could _feel_ something—anything, everything—stirring to life in the space between them and then Malfoy reached around and took hold of him and they were rocking together, rocking—

There was heat and there was light and there was a rippling, bubbling sound that tore through the air and left trails of silence behind and they were lying together, sticky with sweat and seed, and Malfoy's chin was resting on Harry's shoulder and his heart was beating with Harry's own.

"That was nice," Malfoy murmured and Harry found himself nodding along. He wondered if it was always that nice or if it had just been the magic of the rite. He wondered if Malfoy knew.

"Thanks," Harry whispered. He turned his head, trying and failing to meet Malfoy's eyes.

Malfoy chuckled. "I'm glad you liked it, Potter." He kissed Harry's cheek before pulling out of him.

Harry flushed as he sat up in bed. "I really did," he admitted. "Really." He'd never in his life expected to like it with Malfoy, not like this, not without hurting him… but right now Malfoy was the person he wanted to hurt least in the world. He wanted to keep Malfoy in this bed forever and if he had to miss out on Malfoy sucking his cock so Malfoy wouldn't be sent back to wherever he'd been summoned from… well, he thought he could bear that.

Malfoy laughed and kissed his cheek again. "Good. Then you won't mind if I summon you for the rite next week."

Luckily, Malfoy managed to catch him before he fell all the way out of bed.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I am so not making up the concept of Eleventh Degree rituals, nor Aleister Crowley's classification of sex magic, although I did make up the Rite itself. As for the other degrees: the seventh is wanking, the eighth is non-penetrative sex, the ninth is heterosexual sex, and the tenth is impregnation. (As far as I can tell, he never bothered to mention what the first six degrees were.) You can read more about them, plus Crowley's thoughts on mpreg, [](http:)here.
> 
> Real life truly is stranger than fiction.


End file.
